


Of the Standard of Taste

by twenty_minutes



Category: X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Food, Hiatus/discontinued because my position on this topic has changed, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25879024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twenty_minutes/pseuds/twenty_minutes
Summary: Erik and Charles open a restaurant in the middle of a zombie apocalypse.
Relationships: Emma Frost & Raven | Mystique, Erik Lehnsherr/Charles Xavier
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Of the Standard of Taste

To walk down the avenue of golden poplars is to step into a Monet painting and to have the past year of crisis and pandemic fall away. Graymalkin Estate comes into view: an austere marble mansion, resoundingly quiet and peaceful; a retreat into the archaic arms of old world luxury. Its sprawling gardens and never-ending halls have never been empty for the past seven summers during which it provided undergraduate summer research programmes in various fields of life sciences. This year, the labs are closed and the students are gone. Yet there Professor Charles Xavier stands, a small figure at the entrance of the mansion in the distance. Golden boy of the biological sciences academia, zombie as of seven months ago, and geneticist-turned-restaurateur at the eye of the current political and culinary storm.

His handshake is firm and several degrees cooler than any human's should be when I take it. A homemade cocktail of industrial chemicals, he explains, is responsible for arresting the decomposition and festering that would otherwise take place. A palliative and not a cure, he clarifies, but nevertheless, clinical trials are ongoing for a similar derivative that he has made. "And in the meantime, that's what the restaurant is for," Charles says as he leads me to the al-fresco dining area: a garden patio dressed up in Victorian charm. "Would you like still or sparkling water?"

I can't help but to raise an eyebrow. Is Charles Xavier to be my waiter for the day?

Now that he's a zombie, the famous blush that made him the star of the tabloids no longer exists, but he still shoots me a look of embarrassment that's quite unbecoming of a professional waiter.

"I'm not very good at cooking," he admits. "At all. Which is why I partnered up with–"

" _Enslaved_ , the word is _enslaved_ ," comes a voice from inside the manor.

Charles coughs. “The word is _hire_. That's why I had to _hire_ Mr Erik Lehnsherr. And that's why I'm just a waiter."

I catch a glimpse of the chef later. Pallid skin (characteristic of zombies), and tiny scars (an occupational hazard of experienced chefs) lacing his hands, visible through the clear plastic gloves. For now, all I have to go on is the metronome precision of fine-chopping, of a cleaver on a wooden board, the first movement to a meal that I'm still somewhat squeamish about. The garden is quiet otherwise. The baton has passed in Graymalkin from Debussy to Lehnsherr.

In the shade cast by the old manor, the appetiser arrives. Raw human meat, sliced thinly and almost translucently with the finesse of old-school sashimi, garnished with lime juice and soft salt flakes. Nothing prepared me for such a naked gastronomic assault – the knowledge of human meat is one thing, but the sensory, slithery texture of it raw, and for a first course at that, is quite another. The quickly dissipating citric acid and the illusory dash of fleur de sel soon brings the taste to forefront as well. Soft, reminiscent of venison, and to my surprise, not gamey at all.

Let's not mince words: this is a great appetiser.

I say as much to Charles and he beams. I confirm with him that Graymalkin has indeed passed all health standards inspections, given that this is raw human meat we’re talking about, and he hesitates, then sighs.

"I assure you, we are perfectly in compliance with all health regulations, new and old." There’s the subtle dig at the recent changes to federal food regulations, coincidentally arising a mere two weeks after Graymalkin opened its doors, just a month ago. "We’re currently in the process of getting our license for food production, however. As you know, our meat is lab grown, but a laboratory isn’t yet covered under the facilities and equipment permitted for food processing. So it’s all still under review. We expect the guidelines to be updated to allow for establishments such as ours in a year’s time, but until then, I suppose Trask Industries will keep popping by to fine us.”

Graymalkin has Charles Xavier’s deep pockets, so the fines themselves aren’t an issue, but it’s a matter of legitimacy, and Charles Xavier and his partner, Erik Lehnsherr, feel that their customers “should feel like they’re allowed to eat without needing to raid their neighbourhood morgue.”

“Grandstanding to make a point about food safety, “ Erik says through the window of the manor, to which he’s moved. “is _not_ what they’re doing.” Lab grown – that is, cell-based – meat is cheap, and Trask Industries owns an equally held joint venture with Essex Corporation that manages meat processing and meatpacking plants, responsible for a third of current pork and poultry production in the US. The monolithic meat industry wants to smother the cell-based meat industry in its crib, and that means targeting infrastructure transferable from the laboratories and kitchen of Graymalkin.

“They don’t even have an argument.” His voice, though level, is raised. “But if they can delay the case until the zombie vaccine is produced, there won’t be the same political pressure to change the regulations for us anymore. Us zombies – we’re just collateral damage.”

We’re about ten feet apart, and now there’s a trace of sourness in the air, a putrid whiff that stings the nose and throat. Charles is perhaps the only zombie in the country that doesn’t carry a trace of the zombie rot, because of the near instantaneous treatment that only he, with his state-of-the-art laboratories, was famously able to whip up the moment he was exposed to the virus in the course of his research, according to the papers. But it seems that Erik, even though he’s Charles’s partner, hasn’t been lucky enough to find a workable, non-lethal, solution to zombie rot.

Erik disappears from the open window, and the kitchen sounds resume. The slightly fetid air clears up instantly.

Second course. The human meat is as thin a slice as before, but this time, there are multiple slices, marinated with soy and ginger, oven-roasted to render most of the fat and bring to the surface a balance between crispness and char, blushing in a gorgeous gradient towards the center, generously topped with shavings of fresh pineapple and bell pepper, and served with a judicious amount of sauce. The tender, juicy human meat is itself shot through with a deep undercurrent of sweetness. And something deeper, too.

I find myself searching for history and tradition – the hors d’oeuvre carried Japanese heritage, yet this felt Mexican – and when the third and main course arrives, I’m confronted with something quite different yet again. Eastern European, possibly. Smoked human meat with poached quince, red with achiote, served cold and refreshed with a side of olive salsa. The light bitter undertones of dill oil rolls smoothly around the tongue. Through the window I can see the fine mesh strainers likely used to pass the smoke through to the ingredients.

It’s all undeniably delicious to me, a human with human tastebuds and human cravings. It’s the refined, exquisite cuisine of the literati, and nothing in it suggests famine relief; nothing in it alludes to trauma or hardship. But it’s hard to tell what this would taste like to a zombie. Charles and Erik inform me that while taste is affected, it’s more like a uniform dullness, and not at all like the image in popular imagination of everything else on the plate subordinate to the pure orgasmic bliss of human meat.

“Yet human meat is a must.”

“Unfortunately. There are some papers published on this subject, but I’m not sure if they’ve reached the general public yet. Zombification actually alters our metabolic systems such that we’re unable to synthesize our own amino acids – alanine, asparagine, and such – and human meat is the only realistic supply of all those nutrients in a ready-to-use form. Hence the craving for human meat.”

“So if that craving is sated, does your sense of taste go back to a human’s?”

He pauses, not conflicted, just deliberative.

“People from different cultures – or different socioeconomic environments – have different tastes as a result of habituation, so I think. And there’s a genetic component to taste preferences as well. Certain genes are linked to increased sensitivity to compounds that can be as specific as the particular aldehydes of cilantro, making you dislike cilantro in particular. Or you could have an increased density of taste papillae – sorry, I mean tastebuds – on your tongue, making you more sensitive overall. Or on a certain region of your tongue, making you more sensitive to a specific taste. But we take it for granted that if you eat human meat, it’s very, very, very unlikely that anyone from any culture, human or zombie, is going to taste potato chips. Biologically, we’re similar enough that we taste things the same way. Food isn’t a mental construct. Taste is subjective, but it can never be entirely so.

I’d like very much to think that we’re still similar enough to taste things similarly. Human and zombie. I established this restaurant not so that the human-zombie divide could grow wider, but so as to repair it. We hope to serve food that everyone can enjoy together.”

But dessert is a quenelle of light beige ice cream recognizable upon contact with the tongue, but only barely, as human meat again, a striking complement to the earl grey meringue and tuile. There’s no real human meat in this, only flavouring, and one has to wonder if Graymalkin is staking out its position there.

I look at Charles, and his eyes flick almost imperceptibly to where the kitchen is and back. He gives me a worn-out smile.

I finish the dessert. No question, because it’s that delicious. Prices are modest, and the food is good. Yet over the past hour that I’ve been here, the evening light has gradually silvered, and no other guest has come to join us in this twilight world of lush green privacy and marble manorial facades. The economy has been lurching and staggering for eight months now, barely propped up by repeated fiscal injections from a fast draining reserve, and amidst the flotsam and jetsam of collapsed retail and dining establishments left in the wake of its crash, to call the birth of Graymalkin unusual, and Charles Xavier idealistic, would be the understatement of the century.

Outside of Graymalkin, both humans and zombies are broke and starving. A fine dining restaurant born of the zombie apocalypse, it remains to be seen if our village is willing to raise this child.

* * *

Author: Emma Frost. 

Reprinted in the Archive with permission from the author. 


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